No one knew why.
The only other place rumored to claim traces of life in defiance of the affliction was the island of Neverland.
The whole vibe of Treasure Island ruffled Janus’s feathers. But the tall crowman had no choice about accepting the mission. He found the hut where Flint and Blackbeard were waiting for him. The six crowmen stood guard outside as Janus entered.
Captain Flint’s face was decrepit and pale. Blackbeard’s distinguishing features were a facial scar, scabs, and the salt-and-pepper prickly stubble that in no way justified his name.
Janus sensed treason from the get-go. He watched Flint switch out a perfectly good, stiff glass of blood for a tall bottle of rum, which he poured into a shot glass.
I’ll fill a shot glass with your blood soon enough.
Flint slid the shot of rum in front of Janus and filled a second one for Blackbeard. He then poured a third shot for himself. Raised it. Toasted.
“To the treasure!”
Blackbeard clinked his glass with Flint’s and said, “Aye, to the treasure.”
Janus didn’t toast. He just let his shot glass sit, unattended. He stared, silent and cold into Flint’s bloodshot eyes.
“Cat got your tongue?” Flint mocked as he downed his rum. He swallowed and eyeballed Janus with contempt. “When was the last time you birds had a bath? Your feathers stink like rancid cheese.”
Blackbeard winced at the testy comment. Janus sat there, calm and icy cool, angling the razor-sharp point of his long beak toward the empty shot glass. “Drinking rum now?” Janus responded. “Losing your taste for blood?”
Flint squirmed slightly as he answered, “Bit o’ congestion in the lungs. Nothin’ like a shot o’ rum to warm the chest.”
Blackbeard was obviously trying to ease the tension. “Liven up, lads. I says nuthin’ wrong with a shot o’ rum every now and then.”
Janus’s black eyes remained fixed on Flint. His beak angled up. “Cold virus growing inside of you?”
Flint squirmed even more. “Nah. Inhaled too much sawdust. Sanding a ship’s hull early this morning.”
Janus knew that if plant life was growing on the island, and if a cold virus was growing in the pirate’s body, it meant Flint was already making choices.
The undead have no choices. Janus never chose. A blood-eyed followed the commands of the Red Spectrum obediently, staunchly, and blindly.
When that wretched feminine human had liberated their kingdoms from the full force of the affliction last year by destroying the scepter, choice had returned. There were those—like Janus and the wulves—who longed to return to the profane and savage taste of flesh and organ. Granted, alive or undead, Janus’s diet had always included both delicacies, but his undead state intensified the hunger exponentially. In turn, that immensely magnified the renewed thrill of satiating a virtually insatiable appetite.
And so Janus had sought out the Enchanter, surrendering his will in exchange for the exalted sensation of gratifying vulturous hunger. The undead lived only for that moment. Habitual indulgence. Existing solely for immediate meteoric pleasure, never contemplating the consequences that lay beyond the moment. It was always about the moment, the fleeting rush and gratification of now.
The Lord of the Curtain had also rewarded Janus and his flock with something extra for choosing the way of the living dead: the power to walk upright, on two clawed
feet, in the form of an anthropoid. Like those wretched werwulves.
“The portal. Where is it?” Janus asked Flint softly.
“What’s your hurry?”
Janus tilted his head, his liquid-black, beady eyes still glued on Flint. He was growing impatient.
Flint pointed to a plant. “See that over there? Life. Quite a bit of that around here now. The Enchanter has an explanation for such an occurrence?”
Blackbeard winced again. He saw where this was going. And he was right, because Janus had had enough.
The Crowman thrust his head forward—SWOOOOSH—with terrible power and speed. He drove his long beak through Flint’s chest and out the other side, impaling the dangling buccaneer like beef on a skewer.
No more chest congestion.
“Good god!” Blackbeard cried out. “What the hell didya do that for? The bloke’s supposed to tell us where the damn portal is.”
Two other crowmen wrenched, wrangled, and twisted the dead captain’s body from the beak-stake. They dropped him in the dirt for the vultures to feed on.
Blood pooled at the tip of Janus’s beak. He set the tip over Flint’s empty shot glass. Two gleaming teardrops of blood filled the glass. Janus raised it.
“To the treasure.” He gulped it down and cawed in delight.
And here’s to my coming promotion to second deputy, behind this beardless buccaneer.
“How will we find the portal now?” Blackbeard asked Janus.
“I already know the location.”
“How? I thought only Flint knew.”
“I saw the map.”
“Where?”
“From the sky. Flying in. A corpse lay sprawled on the ground. Flint murdered the man. His name was Allardyce. His arms are pointing to the portal.”
“And how, may I ask, did you know this?”
“Read it in the Great Book of Records. Before it was locked away in the Great Vault.”
Blackbeard seemed impressed.
“The vault that touches stars?”
Janus nodded. “And you’ll find the incident recorded in Treasure Island.”
“The book in the human world?”
Janus nodded and then cawed in disgust.
Janus’ plan was to lead his crew of crowmen through the portal and to the place where the humans resided. Janus’s black-winged brethren—the regular crows who inhabited that mindless material realm—had homed in on the firstborn at a place called Hyde Park.
Janus nodded to his crew. There was only more thing to do before departing.
“Join us,” Janus said to Blackbeard as he gestured toward a large mound of dirt.
It moved.
The pirate’s face soured. “Thanks, but no thanks.”
Janus winked a beady black eye. The crowmen attacked the large colony of yellow ants scurrying about their anthill to relish another one of those gratification moments. This was the supreme indulgence—excessively exhilarating, decadent, and pleasurable. They crushed the insects and smeared their fluids all over their black-feathered bodies!
The juices induced a heightened state of ecstasy. The crows writhed on the ground to absorb as much of it as possible, squirming in euphoria.
When the narcotic wore off, they were ready to ascend the portal to the physical plane where humans walked.
Humans, Janus thought disdainfully. He knew they were in complete denial about the existence of Janus’s universe—the nonmaterial realm of sheer imagination.
Such arrogance. Such narrow-mindedness.
Human cynicism is nothing but a superiority complex. They have no basis to stand on, because humans possess the very same addictions as I do, the same choiceless existence as the living dead. So in what way are they supposed to be superior? Even the animals of their world are more intelligent. Animals know, instinctively, to run from fire. Humans always jump into real and proverbial fires, making their own lives more miserable.
They were also slaves to the Red Spectrum. Worse, they were blind to its very existence, which made them the best slaves possible: the slaves who know not of their own slavery or their taskmaster’s.
Except for that worthless feminine creature of human blood.
He’d been told she was starting to wake up. And, she was the firstborn. The one obstacle to the treasure.
This was why the Enchanter had summoned Janus to the portal on Spy-Glass Hill, high atop Treasure Island.<
br />
She had to be disposed of.
The treasure was the second born. The younger sibling.
Which was why the Enchanter had summoned Blackbeard.
CHAPTER Seven
The day should have been gray and gloomy with low-hanging, slate-colored clouds. And those overcast skies should’ve been crying with light rain.
Instead, the sun shone blindingly bright, and the air was crisp with the apple-cinnamon scent of autumn. England’s skies were cerulean blue as Caitlin and Natalie, family, and friends stood at the gravesite of Harold Fletcher, next to the gravestone of Caitlin’s mom, Evelyn Fletcher.
I’m an orphan, Caitlin thought.
The notion was surreal. The situation unfolding around her was unbearably nightmarish. The only thing that felt authentic was the numbing hurt and impending panic in her chest.
Untimely thoughts attacked her as she participated in the funeral rites for her dad.
What if I have a panic attack now? What if I have to flee? How embarrassing and inappropriate that would be!
And then came the guilt, which only amplified her anxiety. How could I be worried about such things at my own dad’s funeral?
Instead of beating herself up emotionally, Caitlin realized her breathlessness and dizziness were not the result of a random anxiety attack—there was good reason for such overbearing emotions.
She was burying her father.
And so she allowed herself to grieve and to feel awful, and sad, and distraught, and hopeless and short-breathed for this one piercing day.
But then she chose to celebrate her dad’s life instead. She blinked hard as salty moisture stung her eyes. She thought about his patience and his unconditional love for her and her sister.
Oh God, how he must have suffered when Mom passed!
But her dad had been more concerned about Caitlin and Natalie than himself. He had given Caitlin the necessary space to come to terms with the disappearance and subsequent death of her mom. For four years, he had waited for her to find the courage to confront the truth.
And he believed in me! Especially when that conniving Dr. Kyle had tried to portray me as some delusional, loony teen.
Natalie grabbed Caitlin’s hand and squeezed it so tight her nails dug into Caitlin’s palm.
Oh, dear God. Poor Natalie. She has no one but me anymore. And I have no one but Natalie. No one!
The casket was being lowered into the grave. Caitlin’s chest tightened and she could no longer swallow her saliva. She shaded her eyes with a raised hand and glanced
over the cemetery lawns, looking anywhere but at the
casket.
Her heart jumped.
A strange-looking man was standing among the crowd.
A tall, narrow-framed man with a weathered, worn, corrugated face the color of concrete. He had long, scraggly hair and a rough, raw exterior. His deep-set, dark-rimmed eyes and menacing presence gave him a dagger-sharp edginess. So did the gold earring glinting in his ear. Danger shone from his piercing eyes.
Caitlin had no clue who he might be, but his deep-lined face made her terribly uncomfortable.
His eyes found Natalie.
Why’s he staring at her?
Caitlin squeezed her kid sister’s hand tighter.
The man abruptly directed his gaze to Caitlin.
She flinched and lowered her head. She shifted her eyes back to the casket.
The coffin was dipping below ground level, disappearing from view. Reality hit like a vicious body blow. Tears fell from her eyes. She clutched Natalie. The sisters wept in each other’s arms. A couple of aunts or cousins from her mom’s side of the family—people that Caitlin never really knew—came over to embrace the girls.
Caitlin swung her head around. Her eyes scanned the
cemetery grounds. She searched for an exit. A path out of the place.
She needed to run. Needed to find Jack. Alice. Her mom. She desperately wished she could see her dad one more time, to tell him how much she loved him and how much she appreciated his unwavering belief in her.
She looked back at the grave. Men in wrinkled suits wielding shovels scooped up dirt from a mound of deep-brown soil and tossed it into the hole. The thud of dirt striking wood made Caitlin cringe.
And then, an oddly warm feeling began to swirl in her chest cavity.
Her eyes hardened. She curled her fingers into fists. She could feel the knots in her stomach, and somehow she knew a violet-blue force was seething in her belly. It bled into her bones. Her fists tightened as her eyes narrowed.
Caitlin was going to hunt down the heartless being Alice had called the Lord of the Curtain.
He had struck her hard, ruthlessly, and without mercy. She knew it was related to threatening to expose Dr. Kyle. Yet, somehow she knew Dr. Kyle was a mere pawn, a puppet, working at the behest of the unseen entity. J. L. Kyle might be dangerous, but he was not the one in control.
She looked back at the man with the decrepit, stone-colored face. Her brow crinkled. Could that be him? Or was he just another henchman or puppet, like Dr. Kyle?
Perhaps she was just overreacting and being melodramatic. Who could blame her under these circumstances?
The strange man was now grinning at her.
She glanced over at a spare shovel wedged in a mound of dirt. A sharp and merciless shovel. A blunt instrument. A fatal weapon. The fingers on her right hand twitched. Her legs tensed. She leaned forward on the balls of her toes, verging on a first step toward the weapon.
She hesitated.
That man’s corrugated, corpselike face—it looked as if it were in the middle of settling into rigor mortis. And she could feel his presence slithering across the lawn and passing right through her.
She stood her ground.
Patience. Now is not the time or place. Today is about honoring Dad and laying him to rest.
She could not defile this solemn moment with violence—especially not in front of Natalie.
The last clump of dirt landed in the hole, and Harold Fletcher was officially interred at Mount Cemetery.
Mrs. Kraggins, the social worker from Foster Home Services UK, gently escorted both girls toward a waiting car parked a little ways in the distance. Caitlin and Natalie had been placed into their emergency foster-care program until the court could appoint the girls a legal guardian. The only suitable relative hadn’t been in the country for years. Caitlin, however, couldn’t even think about problems like that—or her temporary living conditions—right now. It wasn’t that it was just too painful and altogether intimidating. No. She knew she had to start
formulating a plan. Focusing on a plan would keep her mind preoccupied.
Besides, by the looks of that disturbing man at the graveyard and the slimy nastiness of Dr. Kyle, she knew she was definitely dealing with a formidable enemy—a dark and malevolent force that had brought death into her life.
Mrs. Kraggins led Caitlin and Natalie along footpaths imprinted onto the fallen autumn leaves strewn about the Mount Cemetery lawn. The foliage crunched beneath her feet.
Waiting for Caitlin by the car was a warm and welcome sight: Barton Sullivan.
His eyes were soft and comforting and Caitlin deeply appreciated his being there. Barton embraced her and whispered in her ear.
“I feel gutted. I can’t even imagine how you must feel. Anything you need, Caitlin, please, please, let me know.”
Barton held her close. Then he kissed her gently on the forehead.
Other students from Kingshire had gathered around the car, each one coming forward to offer condolences.
The Banister twins, Alfie and Piers. Piper was there. Layla and Paige, as well. All three girls were dressed conservatively. No gloss. No Brazilian blowout-blonde hairstyles.
Piper approached Caitlin and hugged her, whispering in her ear, “I
’m truly sorry for your loss.” Piper wouldn’t let her go, and Caitlin heard her sniffle.
Mrs. Kraggins placed her arm gently on Caitlin’s back. “We must go.”
Piper’s eyes glistened with moisture as she released Caitlin, who smiled sweetly at her friends.
“Thank you all for being here.” She turned away so they wouldn’t see the fresh roll of tears.
Once the sisters were buckled safely in the back seat of the car, Natalie laid her head on Caitlin’s lap. Caitlin gently caressed her, running her three middle fingers through Natalie’s curly mane.
The car interior smelled of leather and pine, reminding Caitlin of her dad’s car back in New York. Ever since she was a kid, her dad had hung pine-scented air fresheners on the rearview mirror so the car always smelled as fresh as a forest.
As they rode back to London, things grew clear in Caitlin’s mind. She had gone to the Lewis Carroll grave weekly, for months on end, riding the train from Central London to Guildford. No one from down under had ever shown up.
Caitlin gritted her teeth as she observed her own eyes peering back at her in the front rearview mirror. Her mind was made up. She was going to go back to Lewis Carroll’s grave as soon as she could. She’d start digging—all the way to Wonderland if she had to.
Somehow, she could feel that Jack was getting closer. She could almost hear unworldly commotion right now at Mount Cemetery. Something was in the air.
Her fingers twisted and tugged on Natalie’s curly locks. Judging by her deep breathing, it seemed her kid sister had fallen asleep. The time had also come to tell Barton Sullivan her own story. They had become close friends. She could confide in him. She would need his help. He was strong and tough, and he really loved Jack. He had loved Jack from the
very first day—when he popped Barton on the nose in the schoolyard.
Barton would believe her if she told him about everything that had happened beneath Lewis Carroll’s grave.
The Lord of the Curtain Page 5